


Solution

by flight815kitsune



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sharing a Bed, possibly dub con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:12:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flight815kitsune/pseuds/flight815kitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He just needed a little edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He just needed a little edge. Just something to dull the boredom, to make his heart race like his thoughts, to release the chemicals and to feel _good_. 7%. No more than that, never more than that.

He dug through his things as only a man with purpose could. He checked the books on the shelf, opening three and finding nothing. One had disappeared completely. They must have discovered them in the past, in drugs busts and searches on Mycroft’s orders. They took them and he hadn’t replaced it because it hadn’t mattered, then. Well, it mattered now. He pulled a bag out of a suitcase, pulled a woman’s scarf from the bag and there was nothing inside of a well-planned spot again.

He hadn’t known they had found this one. He hadn’t needed to check, and they hadn’t told him. How long had this stash been missing?

He had underestimated them. Who had found that one? Mycroft? John? Lestrade? No, likely Mrs. Hudson. She would have recognized the potential of a lady’s handbag in hiding illicit substances and been unafraid to dig through pockets.

After what he had done, after he had saved them from death and saved the world from a dangerous organization, they couldn’t even let him have this?

One last spot in this room before he needed to risk the rest of the flat.

He pulled out the bottom drawer of the end table and contained a cry of relief at the sight. There was a space between the runner and the bottom, enough for a cigar box. He set the drawer to the side and slid the box out from it’s narrow hiding spot. It was a close fit between wood and metal to get it out. If this one was safe, perhaps the one in the kitchen would be, too. That could be checked on later.

Not later if John noticed, of course. If John noticed, he would need to wait three days until he could check. At that point John would be desperate for sleep and he would be able to risk the sound of forcing one of those drawers off of it’s runners and be unlikely to wake him. Tonight, John had been working at the clinic to fill the void and he was so tired when he came home he would hopefully be gone to the world until morning. He would not work if he had suspicions, but it was still only a matter of time before the chance would present itself. Unless John called someone to help. Unlikely, but possible. He wouldn’t choose Lestrade, no. He would be too concerned over a possible conflict of interests to put the detective inspector through that. Not Mrs. Hudson. He knew that she would not be a physical force to reckon with if it came down to it. John knew desperation, and wouldn’t pull her into that. Most likely, he would call Mycroft. He would be imposing enough, and be motivated enough. It would clash with his schedule, which wouldn’t bother John in the slightest. He was still angry at Mycroft and would savour the small way to annoy him without seeming like he intended to. They would all suffer if that happened. If Mycroft became involved this would hardly be worth the effort.

 

He sat on the bed and shrugged off the smooth fabric of the dressing gown. The sleeves got in the way and they wouldn’t stay up if it took a moment to find a vein. The short sleeves of his vest wouldn’t interfere, and if they did the friction of the cotton would be enough to keep the cloth in place if he rolled it up. The discarded silk fell to the floor.

He glanced at the box, remembering the observations he had made when he found it years ago, being sold by another addict looking for money to satisfy their own needs. Things he had attempted to delete but had simply persisted. Cedrela Odorata, grown in southern Argentina. There had been two droughts while the tree was living, 4 years apart, marked by limited growth. It had been handmade by a good craftsman. He was right-handed, going by the marks left from the saw blade and the unevenness of the varnish. He was impatient, possibly working on a deadline. While the wood joined seamlessly, the final touches left something to be desired. There was the smudge of a fingerprint under the left front corner, and a piece of the creator’s dark brown hair was trapped below the smooth surface on the right side lid. The small nails used in construction were from different manufacturers, so the maker likely constructed small things as a hobby. The hinges and latch on the front were more expensive, so the box was likely not intended for personal use. It was a gift, possibly for a brother but going by the style of the metal, more likely a father. Most likely a birthday gift, since people tend to plan ahead more for Christmas than birthdays. It had been discolored by nicotine and there was still residue around the hinges from regular use. It would not have left the family until it’s owner’s death. The son likely preceded his father, or he would have taken it. So it had ended up with the maker’s son, or his nephew. Who then sold it for drugs money.

He ran his fingers along the lid and was taken aback by a rough spot on the finish that hadn’t been there before. Considering the location, it had been caused by someone removing it from its hiding spot. They didn’t know how tight the fit was and the box had come into rough contact with the metal of the furniture.

Someone was in their flat, in his room, and had found it.

He examined it, the barest trace of fingerprints visible on the shiny surface. A man’s hand, so Mrs. Hudson was definitely out. The placement of the thumb indicated the man was left-handed.

Jim?

Jim had been all over their flat, he may have been able to figure out the best hiding places. The box still contained something; he had heard it shift as it had been removed. Had he tampered with the contents?

Explosives? There was no scent to indicate leaking chemicals, but Jim could construct a quality bomb. His network had a number of people with various skill sets, and someone more talented than he was may have been given the opportunity. Depending on the trigger it would have the greatest potential for only damaging it’s target. It was clearly hidden for one man alone to have access. One last insurance plan, perhaps? How many steps ahead had Jim been? Had he anticipated that his plan could be foiled and set one last trap to tie up loose ends?

Had he known that it would be boring enough to drive him to old habits?

He removed a knife from the headboard and placed the box closer to the centre of the bed. He was on his knees on the floor. He ran the blade between the pieces of wood and met no resistance. He flipped the latch with the blade and nothing went off. He pushed the lid open while ducking below the edge of the bed. No explosion. Wonderful. That would have required explanation.

He scanned the contents, and there was a folded piece of paper that he hadn’t placed there.

Heavy paper, torn from an envelope.

He returned to his perch on the bed, plucking the note from the contents of the box. Pollen clung to it; he was unable tell which plant it came from without further analysis. The envelope was pale blue, the type favoured by trading card companies. He unfolded the paper. Black ink. Uneven lines and some smudging. Intoxicated, perhaps. Lines crossed out, so some reasoning was intact, but impulse control was diminished. Moisture had warped the paper more than the ink, so the pen used was most likely one of three brands. The handwriting- Definitely Not Jim.

He dropped it as though burned.

John.

This was not the time for emotions. Emotions were messy and complicated and painful, and this was supposed to be simple and pleasant.

 

He took a bottle of water and cracked the seal. Poured the calculated amount of white powder in. It was wasteful, but safer. Even if he kept himself in a haze for days he wouldn’t use all of it. A small shake and the substance disappeared completely. He could store it in the refrigerator; it would keep longer that way. He would have to put a note on it, but it wouldn’t be touched. There likely wouldn’t be any questions asked.

This was familiar enough that he didn’t need to tie off. He took an alcohol wipe and tore it open. The scent was grounding, part of the ritual. It cooled the flesh as it evaporated.

The note glared, begged for attention. The disposable syringes hid beneath the scrap of paper.

He was fidgeting, he knew he was fidgeting. His knee jumped, fingers twitched. He hadn’t even done anything yet and a sense of energy vibrated in his bones.

He moved the note onto the duvet.

He yanked off the orange plastic cap and pulled back the plunger to draw up the fluid.

He traded the syringe for the paper with a sigh.

Damned curiosity.

_Sherlock,_

~~_What am I doing?_ ~~ _I found this. I wasn’t even trying. All those drug busts and I find this by accident. I was looking for my good watch and the last I remember you were taking it apart for some reason. I went to dump the whole drawer, and I saw this. I should have called Lestrade the second I found it._ ~~_I couldn’t make him come_ ~~ _I didn’t._ ~~_What if you com_ ~~ _It feels wrong to just get rid of everything. I should bin it. But if you come back I’d let you have it_ ~~_, I would. Because even if I had to live with you coming down a thousand times it would be worth it to hear your voice again_ ~~ _I always let you get away with murder. Not actual murder… I shouldn’t joke about that, should I? I was supposed to keep you safe and I guess I cocked it up. If you pull it off, if you defy death for me, and still think you need this, talk to me. Please. I don’t care if it’s 2 in the morning._

_You’ll never read this._

~~_I_ ~~ _Sorry. I’m just pissed enough that this seemed like a good idea-_

_John._

He didn’t need analysis to know now that the paper was the envelope of a sympathy card. The pollen would have come from lilies. John always had helped the evidence click into place.

This was distinctly Not Good.

John hadn’t known him a day and had thought he could never be an addict. One could see the disappointment in him, the doubt, but he had moved on. He was not as much of an idiot as many of his peers, and a physician’s eye could see right through his behaviour. He could tell when things weren’t caused by nicotine or a lack thereof. Never yelling, rarely even speaking of it. He would say “You’re too smart for this.” He would try to offer distractions. His fist would clench but he was so patient.

He was patient for three years and it seemed he was willing to keep being patient for however many it took. Not just through when he used, but through death itself. While the years had not been kind to him, he had had hope. Or at least he had in the beginning. John had witnessed the whole thing, but still went against the evidence.

He didn’t make sense.

Sherlock steepled his fingers.

 

 

He knocked on John’s door at 3:47 am.

He continued to knock until John opened the door at 3:53 am.

“Do you realize what time it is?” He answered the door, his hair mussed and blinking away sleep.

“Get rid of it.” He pushed in and threw himself dramatically onto John’s bed. “My room, on the bed. Get rid of it.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

This earned him a glare.

“What, now?”

“Yes, now!” he snapped.

“Fine.” A still sleep-addled John shook his head and headed for Sherlock’s room.

After a disappointed sigh, murmured curses a floor below, and flushing of the toilet, he returned to find the detective buried in his pillow. He sat beside him, rubbing his face in an attempt to think. “Did you use?”

“No.” It was muffled by the barrier.

“Good. That’s… good.” It quickly became clear that he will have to be the one to ask questions. “Mind telling me why?”

“Bored. Tired.” One word answers were better than none at all.

“Why not?”

“You.” He stated it as though it was the only possible answer.

“Oh?” The surprise in his voice was unmistakable. “Me?” The edges of his mouth turned up in the barest smile.

“Yes, you!” he removed his face from the pillow so that the sneer could be viewed properly. “You and your- your sentiment and your patience and your _face_.” He groaned and buried himself in the pillow again. Ah, the lovely attitude of a Sherlock who wanted something and couldn’t have it.

It would be better to ignore most of what he said, but curiosity got the better of John. “My face.” He remembered a similar thought from a long time ago. Perhaps it was difficult to know the effect one’s expression had on people

Sherlock rolled onto his side and directed his attention to the other side of the room. His knees curled up towards his chest. “I hate your face.” He spat. “I hate the way you smile and those lines that always make you look tired and the way you look so harmless, because it doesn’t make sense. You are dangerous. You shoot people and fight and threaten plans.”

John settled down, directing his attention to the ceiling. His right arm was behind his head, though its effectiveness as a pillow was arguable. The duvet was pulled up to his waist. This could take awhile; he may as well attempt to be comfortable. He hummed an acknowledgement of his attention.

“You threaten everyone’s plans. And you do it by _existing_.” The disgust was audible in his tone. “I almost backed out because of _you._ ”

“Backed out.”

“I had warned you. I had tried to tell you what to do but you didn’t listen to me. Do you have the slightest idea how hard it is to be dead when you know you’re killing someone?”

The air escaped his lungs in a rush.

If Sherlock noticed he didn’t draw attention to it. “Do you know how hard it is to see someone have that much trust in you? I’ve seen men of god with less faith, John. But you needed a note, you _deserved_ a note, and you almost ruined everything.” There was a sound that made a mockery of laughter. “You were supposed to give up, like everyone else.”

“You thought I would do that?”

“I wanted you to.” He muttered. “It would have been easier.”

“Easier? Nothing involving you is ever easy. Besides, it made the media circus easier to deal with when you came back.”

“That’s not the point.”

Another hum. His eyes drifted shut.

“I read your note.” It came out as more confession than anything.

“I guessed as much.” It had been torn into pieces and flushed alongside the drugs.

Sherlock only huffed in response.

He was silent for long enough that John assumed he was being ignored and attempted to sleep.

“This isn’t working.” Sherlock whispered. His weight shifted on the bed.

To save his friend, or at least the flat, John took a chance. He pulled Sherlock back down. His fingers weaved together in front of the taller man’s chest. “ _You_ aren’t going anywhere.” To his surprise, Sherlock didn’t fight it. John pressed his cheek to a still far-too-thin back.

Sherlock hadn’t fought it because he had simply stopped, much like a rabbit in a trance. While his pulse thundered in his ears and every nerve tuned in to the warmth of the body behind him, his mind was completely blank. He had no data for this, no precedent.

Once his mind came back online and stopped focusing on the sensation of John’s faint snoring on his back, he tried to pull away. Those arms just pulled him closer. It was so warm.

Good? Or Not Good?

He was weighing potential courses of action when he felt John’s pulse pick up. An increase in respiration. Small muscle movements. Broken fragments of words. Dreaming. “No.” John broke his hold. It was freeing, but not pleasant. John gasped. Nightmare.

Data suggested that John was not opposed to physical contact. They touched, and had continued to do so since his return, increasing in frequency and duration. There was a positive correlation between the amount of touches and the number of times John smiled. Correlation is not causation, but it’s interesting to note.

He rested his hand on John’s. Let his thumb roam. Touched the calluses of a man trained with handguns, the scar over one knuckle that had to be the result of a fistfight.

John’s breathing evened out. Good. That was Good.

John hadn’t trimmed his nails in two days and he needed to use the lotion Mrs. Hudson gave him for Christmas, because his skin was dry from proper hand washing procedures at work and his current brand wasn’t as effective.

He focused on every small detail he could. The way the muscles in John’s hands differed between right and left, the way the hair on his arms was light. The tiny shifts in his breathing.

He was calm. He had something to focus on. If he caught any fragments of sleep, they were brief.

John’s sheets smelled like him. Tea, soap, cologne, deodorant. Shaving cream but no aftershave. He could name the brands and varieties of each. A hint of sweat and skin.

John’s hand drifted lower and every nerve became hyperaware.

Sherlock's body was betraying him. Heart rate increased blood flow to places it did not need to go. Such a soft touch, an innocent thing, shouldn’t cause this sort of reaction.

John nuzzled into his spine with a small noise.

His lips parted before he caught himself and gulped. Not Good.

It felt far too warm.

He attempted to inch away but John pulled him back. While one hand remained at his waist, the fingers of the other curled around his thigh.

Not Good. Not Good. Not Good.

His nails dug into his palms. He was above all this. It would pass and then he could return to the task of observing John.

The hand on his hip shifted up, underneath his vest.

He bit his lip to prevent a very loud groan at the contact of skin on skin. It felt _good._ And due to John’s interference the problem would not be resolving itself anytime soon.

This had to be taken care of immediately and as efficiently as possible.

He slid a hand under the elastic of his pyjama bottoms. Long fingers wrapped around a throbbing cock. His head tilted back at the prospect of relief. Quick strokes left him panting as though he’d just chased a criminal through the alleys of London. Tighter, faster. His hips started to move in short aborted thrusts. So close. John pulled him tighter and he came with a flash of stars and a low groan. Slower movements of his hand drew it out. He shuddered.

John’s breath was still even.

The pleasure ebbed away slowly. That was… more intense than he had grown accustomed to. There wasn’t this flood of chemicals when he had been forced to tend to certain base instincts alone. Human contact was to blame. Increased oxytocin levels. Repetition would confirm or disprove that hypothesis, but an experiment like that was likely Not Good. There was a taboo about sexual stimulation in the presence of others. Issues of consent and the required rituals to achieve that goal. He repositioned himself so that he wasn’t touching any of the mess inside of his pyjamas. He folded the fabric to contain the small bit of moisture as best he can. It would need to be taken care of after John released him if there was any hope to avoid staining.

He counted the heartbeats at his back. Analyzed the small shifts in movement. It was easy to be overwhelmed by John.  


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes up cold and alone. Of course. Serotonin and prolactin had been a powerful combination. He’s shifted position to lie on his stomach. The roughness of last night’s mess is a reminder of a moment of weakness. His face is buried in John’s pillow. A few blonde hairs cling to the pillowcase. One of them is longer; it has to be from before John’s last haircut. The pillow has a stronger scent of hair product and shampoo, the lingering aroma of John’s sweat underneath it all.

The footsteps climbing the stairs are quiet.

John, holding a towel around his waist, digs for fresh clothes in his dresser.

“I hope you’ve left some hot water.” he mumbles, face still half-buried in the pillow.

John clutches the towel tighter. He turns his back to the consulting detective as though that would grant him some privacy and drops it to pull on his pants.

His speed was for nothing, Sherlock’s attention was fully focused elsewhere. The scar on the back of John’s left shoulder had not been so exposed before. The injury to the front had been visible more often, but even then it was only for fleeting glances if he caught John changing. The bullet had passed through completely, lots of soft tissue damage. 39mm round from an AK47, considering the size of the wound and that weapon’s commonality in the region. The shooter was in a position far below his target. The round had been moving slowly, going by the amount of damage, so there had to have been some distance. The shooter may have been aiming for the heart or head and missed, likely not taking into account wind. So, not trained well, likely young. The bullet’s path would have taken it through the brachial plexus, which could be the root cause of the tremor, and- no.

At “no.” John’s posture changes. He clenches his hand into a fist. He was uncomfortable. Some of that deduction must have been voiced.

“John?”

“What?”

“Subclavian artery?”

There’s a pause where John is obviously licking his lip. “Vein, too.”

His mind is running the mortality rates, and that was Not Good. The thought of John bleeding out in a desert because an untrained marksman couldn’t even kill him properly- the thought of John being shot- the thought of John DYING- was to be avoided at all costs and there the evidence was, staring him in the face.

John shouldn’t be alive. He should have bled to death as a soldier in Afghanistan long before they had ever met. Exsanguination. Shock. Potential pneumothorax, hemothorax, or hemopneumothorax.

He scans those shoulders, those arms, every small mark earned through their time together shines like a beacon, the memory of how every nick and scratch happened is evidence that John lived after his injury, that he still breathes, and the tightness in Sherlock’s chest fades but doesn’t vanish.

What was the proper etiquette to ask someone to inspect the evidence of their past injuries? To analyze the remnants of the thing that had nearly ruined them? John appreciated the attempts at social niceties. He was even worth the effort of them, on occasion.

John catches him staring and gives a nod. He sits on his bed. “Right. I can tell you’re dying of curiosity.”

This was why John was amazing. He understood things others wouldn’t.

The angle of incision indicates someone inexperienced, fresh from school, and nervous. A new doctor had repaired the damage done by a new soldier to a man who was better than each of them in their respective occupations. He allows himself to touch. He needed more information.

“Hypotensive on arrival?”

Only a nod, now.

And the evidence continues to stack up. John should have died. He was missing something, he had to be. “How?”

He gives a half-hearted shrug. “Bill kept a close eye on me, so they caught the infection early.”

He had been blinded by sentiment, and that was why it had to be a weakness. Small details now all the more obvious, like the texture of the scar being uneven due to inflammation, not just the location. How could he not have noticed? Depending on which sources you trusted, the mortality rate for his injuries in hospital could be as high as 83%. Trying to factor in infection in addition to that made it hard to breathe, to say nothing of complications in healing that could have ruined his mind by depriving it of proper blood flow or sent a lump of clotted blood cells to his heart and stopped it from beating.

He presses harder, noting the thickness of the scar tissue. He forces his voice to be steady. “Scapula?”

“Missing some bone, added some bullet fragments.” He’s so calm about everything and it doesn’t make sense.

If the bullet had fragmented, who knows the damage it could have wrought? Oh, right, someone who had thoroughly investigated every possible injury that could kill someone because The Work had demanded such knowledge. He rests his forehead on John’s shoulder. Presses the palm of his hand against that plane of flesh to keep his fingers from shaking.

John straightens up, but doesn’t complain. He doesn’t pull away. He just softly asks “Sherlock?”

It was intimate, far too intimate. This was more than what was acceptable for friends. John was not supposed to allow this. He was supposed to protest with joking words about his own preferences.

What was the correct way to express such profound gratitude that someone had been blessed with such luck?

“I need to get dressed.”

“You don’t have work.”

“We’re out of milk, and not all of us like just sugar. I was hoping to be out and back before you woke up.”

He doesn’t move, but to be fair, neither does John. “I don’t hate your face.”

The slight change in posture and breathing indicative of curiosity.

“It puts people at ease and makes them underestimate you, it’s an advantage when gaining information and chasing suspects. You look soft.”

John huffs in amusement. “I am choosing to take that as a compliment.”

“I hate when you look tired because it means you haven’t slept. You don’t sleep when I require your presence for a case or when you have nightmares. Those nightmares only occur when I haven’t gotten a case and you are bored or when you remember something that truly upset you. My actions are to blame for an estimated 87% of your sleepless nights; the others are attributable to Harry or your work. I hate when you look tired because it’s usually my fault.”

“It’s fine.” He pulls away, smile making his eyes crinkle

“It’s not fine.” He grits his teeth. He rises up to as much height as the bed will allow. It was intended as a move to intimidate, but it only succeeds in allowing more skin to enter his field of vision. Short, strong thighs. Pale.

John shakes his head and rises to put his clothes on. “There should be plenty of hot water. I won’t be long. Was there anything else we needed? Have you used up all of the vinegar again?”

“That experiment ended last week-“

“Then it needs to be disposed of. You nearly gave Mrs. Hudson a heart attack when she came looking for sugar and saw _that_ on the counter. If you don’t take care of it, I will, and I have no qualms about disposing of the others while I’m at it.” He heads back down the stairs and one can hear him put on his shoes and forget where he placed his keys.

“Coffee table.”

A pause, footsteps, “Thank you.”

Sherlock smiles. Some things about John were still predictable.

He waits until John is at least a street away before going to take a shower. The scent of himself couldn’t be more apparent, but perhaps John hadn’t noticed. If he had, he hadn’t drawn any attention to it. Unobservant John or socially appropriate John, which was more likely here? He hadn’t seemed embarrassed. Unobservant, then.

He buries the evidence in the dirty laundry.

The hot water is nearly scalding. He recognises that he had overestimated the amount of shampoo remaining in the bottle. He uses John’s instead, ignoring the goosebumps that the scent inspires. As soon as his fingers are dry, he sends a text. John, assuming that this shopping expedition was going like all the others, was still looking at canned goods.

The experiment in the kitchen is taken care of. Another in the fridge is also disposed of. They would need the shelf space for the leftover Chinese if Lestrade would suck up his damned pride and admit that the three burglaries mentioned in the newspaper were connected. He tunes into the latest trashy television program to fill the silence.

John returns with the shopping and gives an appreciative little nod at the free space. He makes a small pleased noise when he opens the fridge to find something else missing. Doing what was asked was Good, but doing more than that was better.

 

Hours later, and he’s pacing.

“Still nothing?”

“No.” He can’t stop his displeasure from tinting the word.

“We could play a game- not Cluedo.” The experience must have been very Not Good for him to emphasise that condition. But he didn’t observe the facts, the only logical explanation- “No.”

He sighs.

“No cold cases, no world crises?”

“No.”

He licks his lip, he’s thinking.

“You do hold affection for me.”

John jumps. “What?”

“It’s the only explanation for why you tolerate this.”

 

He’s in front of John’s door again. Hesitating as he raises his hand to knock. Nothing left to lose.

“It’s open.”

John is sitting up in bed. He’s typing on his laptop, replying to some comment on his blog.

He closes the door behind himself. He jumps into it like he did before, making John bounce. He pulls the covers over himself. This doesn’t even earn him a look. John shuts his computer and places it beside the bed. He sets his alarm and clicks off the light. His right arm is behind his head, his left rests on his stomach.

“You knew I would come.” He turns to John. The light from the street is enough to see by.

“I thought that you might.” John’s eyes are closed. “Is this going to become a regular occurrence?”

“Would that be a problem?”

“Nnn-“ He pauses, with an exhale not unlike a laugh. “Huh. _No_ , actually. Not a problem.”

“Your answer surprised you.”

“Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

“This doesn’t bother you.”

“Sleep.”

“You don’t sleep with other people for as long as I’ve known you.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What makes me different from all of those women?”

John is trying to ignore him.

“Is it the nightmares? Last night-”

“Go to sleep.” There’s a sharpness to the words now.

“I don’t sleep.”

“Well I do and I have to go to work in the morning.”

He had all the time in the world to figure out why, even if John was being purposely unhelpful. He listens to the sounds from outside, the sound of John’s breathing. He edges closer as it evens out, deepens, slows. He lays his head on John’s chest. He can hear his heartbeat, as steady as its owner. 


	3. Chapter 3

John, slightly angry if the line of his mouth was any indication- pulls him down by his shirt and claims his mouth in a forceful kiss. John’s tongue John’s lips John’s teeth owning him with every movement. Hard to focus. John’s hands on his sides, forcing him into position. Strong hands skim over his hips before finding a grip his thighs. With a pull he’s off his feet. His arms reach around the back of John’s neck, his shoulders, holding on for dear life. His legs are around John’s waist. Bare feet struggle for purchase against the dark denim of the other man’s jeans. He makes some small noise in his throat as John captures his lower lip and grazes it with his teeth. John adjusts his hold, bringing the evidence of their arousal into _beautiful_ contact. He grinds into it, panting into John’s mouth more than kissing it. John’s right hand creeps upward and _squeezes_.

And- no. That was wrong. John was strong (though certainly some of it had gone soft since he was no longer active duty) but unlikely to lift him bodily. Very unlikely with a majority of his weight to John’s left, on the injured shoulder. Damn.

Sherlock banishes the image to a far-off corner of his mind palace.

Days become weeks, and he shares a bed with John on a fairly regular basis for long enough that it seems normal. John sleeps better (not entirely without nightmares, but better) and his own thought processes are clearer. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement that should have been adopted at an earlier date.

It has the added bonus of allowing him to study John nightly, which helps certain patterns come to light.

John was most likely to have a nightmare when he slept on his side. It did not matter if he had started the night in that position or had simply moved into it, the results were the same. The reactions could be worrying even to someone who fully anticipated them, and it was unlikely that any of the women who had found their way into John’s bed had known what to expect. Being a sentimental person who enjoyed physical contact, John and his previous partners had likely engaged in spooning behavior due to the high levels of intimacy afforded by such a position. This had resulted in poor experiences which had led to John no longer sharing a bed with his romantic interest, preferring to remove himself to another piece of furniture or returning home rather than spending the night. This led to decreased feelings of intimacy and caused the pair to break it off more often than not.

Once the pattern had emerged, he simply had to prevent John from placing himself into that position. Positive reinforcement. Contact helped prevent John from attempting to seek him out. Even something as simple as hooking his foot over John’s leg is enough (should he need to be doing research on a laptop while John demanded sleep) but there is a certain appeal to resting his head on John’s chest and hearing every intake of breath and heartbeat for uninterrupted hours.

John’s hand tends to wander throughout the course of the night. He would start with it behind his head. The first movement usually resulted in it reaching halfway across the bed. The second resulted in John’s fingers at the nape of Sherlock’s neck or on his spine. Once John reached his waist, he was unlikely to reposition it. This had, unfortunately, resulted in certain biological reactions as his groin pressed against John’s hip. These usually resolve themselves when they go ignored, although it had been necessary to flee to the bathroom on more than one occasion rather than risk being caught in a compromising position. If John noticed any of the trips, he hadn’t inquired as to the reason behind them.  

John’s own biological reactions over the course of the night are fascinating, and his lack of shame despite waking aroused in Sherlock’s presence is wonderfully _puzzling_. Depending on their proximity John would flush various shades of pink, yet he never apologizes or makes any real attempt to hide it.

Time spent in close proximity to those with the same gender during his time in the military remains the most likely explanation.  

John’s morning breath is unpleasant, but tolerable considering the fact that its presence signifies the proximity of John’s face to his own. The scent of his sweat however, is far from unpleasant. There were studies about genetic compatibility influencing mate selection. Immune system benefits for potential offspring could be indicated with an appealing scent. While they certainly would not be procreating at any point, the possibility of his attraction to John being enforced by his very DNA is somewhat comforting.

The movements John makes settling into bed occasionally leave his hand atop Sherlock’s. John didn’t seem to notice it, or at least register it as an intimate gesture that even the average observer could pick up on. All it would take was one slight movement and John’s fingers would lace with his. He did not make that small change for the sake of plausible deniability.

If he were to die under suspicious circumstances, and they were to search him entirely, they would find John’s fingerprints on his skin. The familiar arches of John’s ring and middle finger would be on a bony ankle, where he had touched passing to the other side of the bed. The loops of John’s index and pinky would be on the skin of his hip just above where his pajama bottoms rested. A smudged tented arch from John’s thumb would smear the inside of his wrist, possibly a stray print elsewhere on his forearm depending on how John had clung to him the night before. The evidence of John would be all over him, undeniable proof of something as fleeting as a touch. He does not need an extra set between his fingers if the method to achieve them could result in a lack of John in the future.

The first time he wakes with nearly every inch of himself pressed against John (his nose at the base of John’s neck- John would feel every exhalation on his shoulder, both hands on John’s chest- one was asleep, the numbness a stark contrast to the breathing and pulse under the other set of fingers, the beginnings of an erection against the curve of John’s buttocks) Sherlock freezes. It seems as though every muscle was stiff in response to a bit of engorged tissue. Not Good.

List of potential responses: Extricating himself from his position- this response would likely only wake John, considering the position of his hands. He may be able to move so that his back was on the mattress, but it was unlikely that he would be able to retrieve his arm from-

John’s heartbeat picks up beneath his hand. He tenses up for a fraction of a second only to return to his previous position, “Sherlock?” the question is barely more than an exhale at the proper place in his established breathing pattern. Interesting. One could practically scent the adrenaline in the air. Possibly a talent retained from the military, when an advantage could be granted with the element of surprise.

Sherlock releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Yes?” He was caught. 

“Did you hear something?”

Oh. His reaction had been interpreted as being in response to a threat. “No.”

John practically melts into his arms, the tension in his back vanishing with a soft exhale. He wipes his face with his hand. “Your arm’s asleep, isn’t it?” He raises himself to allow for easier limb extraction.

The blood flow takes what seems like an excessive amount of time to return to normal.

Until his personal interruption he had not been aware of any signs of disturbed sleep. This would require future repetition.

He knows from experience just what, exactly, Mycroft is noticing. The way his brother’s face seems to finally accept the pull of gravity, with every corner being slowly dragged downward as the evidence mounted, was infinitely satisfying. Anything that could cause that expression was deserving of praise.

Wrinkled clothing and mussed hair indicative of recently interrupted sleep. Stray feathers from the same down pillow that had clearly seen better days present not only peeking out from beneath John’s arm, but also caught in curly hair.

Mycroft’s frown at John’s leg demands a glance.

A plain cotton sock on John’s right foot which bore the faint marks of dust from irregularly cleared floors from two differently-sized feet. Mycroft had come across each of them wearing an article of the other’s clothing before, it was unlikely that that was the cause of his expression.

Two inches above the knee on John’s inner thigh is a very obvious stray hair. The location could have been the result of any number of different factors. Mycroft had simply jumped to the most intimate one.

His brother couldn’t smell John’s sweat on his skin from this distance. He could, however, make out the saliva residue on the left shoulder of the housecoat. (Not John's, though he had no way of knowing that without DNA analysis.)

Coupled with John’s lazy smile and his own quickly-fading grin as they had emerged from the same room, it was no surprise what conclusion his brother had come to.

“May I speak with John for a moment, brother mine?”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“Sherlock-” Mycroft starts.

“Why are you here? Is there a case?” A swift end needs to be brought to this discussion. 

“No. We have an anniversary celebration to plan.” He states the words as though it were some plot for world domination that he needed assistance with, and not the selection of the same gift and venue for their parents that they had made together a dozen times.

After an hour of discussion around their kitchen table, including input from John which Mycroft kept continuously asking for in some covert attempt to discover more information which simply _did not exist_ , the plans are made.

They would have a romantic dinner for two at the restaurant in which they had gone on their first date, and a week-long trip to the same hotel where they had had their honeymoon.

Again.

John leans over him in the morning, half awake and mid-stretch. Those lips press against his face, slightly too wet and making contact somewhere between his mouth and cheek. It was nowhere near a good example of a kiss.

A cold front had moved in, bringing stormy weather with it. The heavy rains are… inconvenient, to say the least. Trace evidence on corpses and crime scenes exposed to the elements could be easily swept away by the wind and water. Cabs are more likely to be filled, making it harder to get any sort of satisfactory transportation to crime scenes. Mud, debris from the street, and water are even dragged into perfectly preserved _indoor_ crime scenes, usually by the person who had come across the body in the first place so he isn’t even given the satisfaction of witnessing Lestrade reprimand someone for their stupidity.

However, none of the myriad distractions and inconveniences compare to the infuriating fact that John is in pain.

While the common belief that bad weather had anything to do with pain in old injuries had little to no support, that hadn’t stopped John from feeling it. Perhaps it was in his head, like the limp. There were few ways to test if that were the case, but most involved more special effects or television program tampering than he was willing to take on at the moment. Considering the rarity that was John displaying such signs of discomfort, it was nothing to be overly concerned about at this time. Should the frequency increase, further action would need to be taken. John in pain was not only detrimental to the work, it negatively impacted his behavior at the flat as well.

He had attempted to ignore the sharp intake of breath when they had stepped outside for a case, Simple. It could have been attributed to surprise at the amount of precipitation or the drop in temperature. The repeated clenching of his hand into a familiar fist could be written off with the weather. or perhaps some sort of annoyance carried over from his shift. The way he stood slightly straighter than normal was harder to justify. There was no one here he was trying to express dominance over or seduce. The way he grit his teeth was undeniably discomfort, though it could be assigned to something emotional in nature if he ignored all the other pieces of evidence. But John clearing his throat to give confirmation of the end time to the previous night’s series finale was the final straw. His voice had started out too high, then corrected by the throat clearing to return to it’s normal tone.

John is in pain.

It is harder to focus on what breed the dog hair on the victim’s sleeve came from. Miniature Schnauzer, cut not shed. Standard salt-and-pepper coloration.

Not her dog. There is a mostly cleaned pawprint on her coat which had been wiped clean with wet cotton and touched up with a stain-remover marker.

She wasn’t wet from the rain. There was dog shampoo on her skin, along with the moisture.

“The groomer was paid to kill her by a rival breeder. The evidence will be found in his bank accounts.”

He was never more glad to have his particular brand of luck in hailing a cab than when John eases himself into a warm leather seat.

The moment they reached home, he takes the stairs two at a time. John’s grumbling as he follows is overpowered by the whir of the microwave turntable.

A tied-off sock filled with rice has none of the grace of some of the other options available on the market but served the same purpose. John catches the thrown item (despite the heat radiating from it) and sandwiches it between himself and his worn chair. He pulls his laptop up from its position beside the chair and wears one of his small smiles as he asks, “Alright, walk me through it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I will likely be adding more to this. Also, I used possibly dub con as a tag because while John was sleeping, he wasn't really involved with it, so i wasn't sure how to tag it.


End file.
